


The Trident

by Alex2598



Category: Original Work
Genre: Detective Noir, Drama & Romance, F/M, Film Noir, Gen, Love Triangles, Organized Crime, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:48:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25624678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex2598/pseuds/Alex2598
Summary: The year is 1947 in Brooklyn, and PI Ray Allison is on the case when he is hired by Gwen Sanford to look into the death of a high profile millionaire and weapon manufacturer with shady connections, her father, Stephen Sanford, who suddenly died in bizarre car crash which is quickly written off as a suicide. The case will prove to be anything but straightforward however. A dearth of direct evidence and a parade of suspects with possible reasons to kill promises to complicate Allison’s investigation. Furthermore, his involvement with Gwen and the alluring stranger, Vera Walters, may just prove his undoing…Note: The soundtrack for this story can be found here:https://soundcloud.com/billis-lopez/sets/the-trident-ost?ref=clipboard





	1. Saturday, August 9th, 1947

Note: This story should be read as a frame narrative. The plain text is the flashback. The italicised text is in the "present", and is meant to reflect the narrator telling the story to somebody else. It can also be thought of as a voiceover.

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**Location unknown**

**Date unknown**

_I guess it would have begun on this day. I know it will seem odd to those innocent passersby who were simply enjoying a peaceful afternoon on this particular day, to think that events of such consequence could have been occurring less than a few yards away from them. But it's true. And this is how the whole ordeal started. It was a sunny Saturday, I remember it as clearly as if it were yesterday..._

_I suppose I had better start with some basic information. My name is Raymond Allison, but everyone calls me Ray. I'm 26 years old, and I own a private detective agency. At least I did..._

_My upbringing was of minimal consequence. Although I grew up without a father, my mother more than made up for the both of them. She showered me with love and attention. It was a happy, middle-class childhood. I was cared for, taught everything one needs to live a happy and fulfilling life, was given sufficient independence, had never been in trouble, not more than was reasonable for a boy of that age anyhow._

_Once I had graduated from high school, I went to law school for a few years, and that was where I discovered my passion for helping the forgotten, overlooked voices crying for justice. Now personally I had never cared for the slow crawl of justice, the constant waiting around, sitting on evidence, and dealing with the regulations and potential for corruption that came with working for a police department. No, my calling was of a different nature. I was young and idealistic. All I wanted to do was make the world a better, safer place. And so I worked hard until finally, a couple years ago, I obtained my private investigator's license._

_For a while, things went well. As you know, there's no shortage of crime in New York. And many people don't much care for dealing with the police either, so they come to folks like me. Someone who will take action right away. I took care of a variety of cases: theft, assault, kidnapping, and yes, even murder. It seems I had gained a reputation of sorts, for going the extra mile for my clients. Call it my youthful ardor, or that old idealism still residing in my heart. Whatever it is, maybe that explains how this whole thing got started._

_It was the ninth of August, nineteen forty seven, it was a Saturday afternoon. Most people don't like to work Saturdays, not even PI's. I was the exception. I wasn't married, I had no family of my own. This job was my life. And in any event, business had been slow that day..._

**Saturday, August 9th, 1947**

**Office of Ray Allison, private investigator**

**Manhattan, New York**

I sighed as I leaned back in my chair. This was an unusual feeling for me, to be alone in my office, no clients to assist, no projects to work on. Maybe it was for the best that business was slow today. I had been working nonstop on a slew of cases for my clients over the past few weeks. Now for the first time in months, my slate was absolutely clean. It wasn't great for business, but it could still turn out to be a positive. After all, I knew where I lived. There would soon be more cases to work on. Maybe it was a sign from the fates, maybe it wouldn't be so bad to just leave the office for a little while and take a walk through the bustling streets, pick up lunch, swing by Central Park, take it easy for once.

I swiveled about and took a look through the window. It was a rare sunny day in Manhattan, which bathed the skyline in a golden glow. The summer was in its final swoon, and it wouldn't be long before we were plunged back into the customary frigid winter. Yes, I thought to myself, it must be a sign. Today was my day to relax. To leave work behind for just a few hours. And now that I thought of it, Sundays weren't usually much better for business. I could take the whole weekend off...when's the last time that happened?

I smiled as I pictured the plan coming together in my head. I could instruct my secretary to just tell anyone who came in to come back on Monday. I was only human anyways. I couldn't solve every crime in this city, as much as I wanted to. I had just about talked myself into this idea when the familiar ring of the telephone interrupted my thoughts. I picked up the phone receiver and placed it to my ear.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Allison?"

That was the voice of my secretary, Miss Mosely. I heaved an internal sigh. And maybe deep within me I knew although I didn't want to confess it. It seemed that the fates had, as they so often did, changed their minds on a whim. There would be no rest today.

"Yes, Ms. Mosely?"

"You have a visitor."

"All right, send them in please."

"Very well." And the phone call ended. I straightened out some papers and other items on my desk to neaten it up. I took a sip of my afternoon coffee, sat up in my chair and focused my vision on the door, wondering who would be walking in this time. Would it be like the man who claimed he had been framed by an infamous gang for a series of armed robberies? Or the wife who was concerned that her husband might be more involved in a murder case than he was letting on? I'd seen both of those and so many more. Because of my age, many people tended to assume I was new to these things. That couldn't be further from the truth. I'd seen some terrible things in this line of work. I thought I was ready for anything.

What I wasn't ready for was for the young woman who came walking through the door a few moments later. At once, several thoughts occurred to me simultaneously, and all of them seemed jumbled and contradictory: the first, as she quietly closed the door behind her and walked towards me, was that she could have been any one of my previous female clients, plainly clothed as she was, with a simple dress and hat. The second, that in spite of this, she held a certain beauty that even this humble appearance could not contain. Her dark red curls highlighted her emerald green eyes, which at the moment were reflections of unfathomable loss and grief. Their sorrowful gaze captivated me, and I instantly found myself wanting to know who this oddly enchanting woman was. To know her story, why she had come to me. But it was then that the third thought hit me, I _did_ know this woman. Even before we'd spoken a word to each other, I recognized her at once, although her initial appearance had caught me off-guard. She was normally seen in far more elegant attire than this, but then again, considering the occasion of her visit, I could not blame her. The only trapping of her wealth was a Rolex watch, and even this she seemed reluctant to show. Yes, I did know her. It was difficult not to when she was a member of arguably the most famous family in New York aside from the Rockefellers. It was the only daughter of one Stephen Sanford, Gwen Sanford.

_I'm sure you, as everyone else, know who Stephen Sanford was. The founder and President of Sanford Munition Co., one of the most powerful manufacturers and suppliers of arms to the military during the second world war. Sanford's wife had passed away some years ago, but this did not quash his ambitions by any scope. If anything, it only made him more of a workaholic. During the war, if you saw a tank, a gun, an aircraft, even a battleship, there was a good chance Sanford Munition Co. had either built it or played some role in commissioning it. They were the toast of the town in a time when patriotism reigned supreme. The Sanfords were heroes. Along with his young daughter Gwen and their contingent of servants and maids, they lived out a comfortable existence in the Sanford Estate in the wealthiest stretch Long Island. After the war ended, Sanford Munition Co. made the mistake of continuing to go on as if it were business as usual. But of course, that wasn't the case. The war was over, the hot one anyways. And the cold one had begun. The military didn't have as many demands as before. Sanford Munition Co. was experiencing some financial trouble, but that was the least of their worries, as we were all soon to find out..._

"Miss Sanford? To what do I owe your presence this fine afternoon?"

Given her appearance and demeanor, I wasn't surprised to find that Miss Sanford looked deeply distressed. In fact, it looked as though she'd been crying. I knew why. Like everyone else, I had heard and read about the incident. The tragic car accident that killed her father, one of the most renowned millionaires in New York, maybe in the whole country, Stephen Sanford. This was a man who was held up by many as a true patriot and American hero. It was no surprise that the media had given his untimely passing a massive amount of coverage. They wanted answers, and soon they got them. The police had quickly concluded their investigation with the finding of suicide. Mr. Sanford was depressed because his company was losing business, so he got in the car and took his own life. There were others in the car, a business partner, a chauffeur, they'd been lucky enough to survive. At the time I hadn't thought much of it. But now, with the heiress to the Sanford fortune standing before me trembling like a leaf, now I took notice. It was so shocking to see a woman in such a position of power, a woman barely imto adulthood being asked to step up and deal with this awful tragedy, a wealthy socialite with no need for a plain guy like me, to see her like this, so vulnerable and afraid, it haunted me. Right then I just wanted to get up and put my arms around her and make everything all right, but of course I couldn't. So I stayed put and tried to keep my demeanor calm. After all, when the client is distressed, it's my job to be strong for them.

"You've heard about what happened to my father, haven't you Mr. Allison?"

"Yes I have, and I'm terribly sorry for your loss, Miss Sanford."

"That's the reason I wanted to speak with you today, I was hoping you could help me."

My eyes couldn't help but take her in. Her elegant dress was illuminated brilliantly in the afternoon sun. That same illumination was present in her eyes, but this time It was of a natural cause. It was mesmerizing.

"I will do what I can."

"The truth is, I don't believe the police have done enough to find out what really happened."

I looked up. This was interesting. Was Miss Sanford implying that there was something more to this story than suicide? As if to answer my question, she continued speaking.

"I don't believe he committed suicide at all. I think the police are just dead wrong. My father isn't the kind of man to do that."

I stroked my chin thoughtfully. "Well if he didn't commit suicide, then what do you suppose happened? An accident?"

"No sir, I think he was murdered."

"Murdered?" I asked. This was a serious allegation. "Have you got any evidence to support this?"

Miss Sanford gave me a defeated look. "No sir, it's only an intuition, a hunch, I suppose."

I gestured for Miss Sanford to sit down, and she did so. It seemed we were going to have a serious conversation about this. Now I have been called upon many times to investigate incidents that family members had deemed suspicious. They would often come to me as Miss Sanford had done and tell me about how wonderful their relative is, how they would never take their own life. It is difficult to accept, true. It is easier in a way to suppose that it is murder because that takes control out of the victim's hands. It means they did not willingly abandon their family. But in the vast majority of these cases, I had the unfortunate, yet necessary, responsibility of informing these clients of the terrible reality. Ssometimes suicide was the best and only explanation. I hated it as much as anyone, but it was my job to tell these hard truths. For I had already learned by now that ninety nine percent of the time, things were exactly as they seemed.

_It was that rare one percent that kept me on my toes, that made me feel a pang of sympathy for Miss Sanford. Maybe she was right. Maybe old man Sanford finally crossed the wrong fellow. He didn't exactly have the cleanest reputation in this town. He was your typical business tycoon, a man with a big bank account and an ego to match. He had no shortage of potential enemies. The communists for one, would have been happy to see this major weapons manufacturer out of the picture for the US. His domestic enemies might have been even more worrisome. Mr. Sanford was known to deal underhanded and do anything to either merge with competitors or drive them out of business. So was it at least plausible that Miss Sanford's claims held water? Certainly. But it was just as, if not more, likely that this would be another case where the simplest explanation was the actual one._

"Tell me, Miss Sanford, when did you begin to have these suspicions that your father's death may not have been as it was portrayed?"

"It was just about right away. The police already had their theory, but I felt something telling me it was wrong. That was when I had the idea to get a second opinion of sorts, from you."

I tried not to make too much eye contact with her as we spoke. It's strange, because usually it's the other way round. You want to make as much eye contact with your clients as possible, to show them that you care. And I do care, so for me, it's natural. But in this case, I knew that her startling emerald green eyes would have just distracted me. So I concentrated on her Rolex, which was rested, with the rest of her arm, upon the table. I watched those clock hands slowly move, tick tock tick tock, and tried to push down the feelings I was having. It wasn't right to feel that way about a client. At the same time, I had to be attentive to her story, so I took out a notepad and started jotting down notes.

"Okay, you've got my attention. Why don't you start from the beginning, Miss Sanford?"

"Please sir, just call me Gwen," she insisted.

"Well all right, but only if you stop calling me sir, so far as I can tell, I haven't been knighted. "Ray" will do just fine."

Miss Sanford, Gwen, gave a small smile at my bad joke. It was only for a moment, and I tried to play it off, but there was something about that smile. Something that made my heart go wild. I tried to ignore it and go on with the interview.

"All right, Gwen, can you tell me everything that happened leading up to where we are now?"

_So she told me. It was the 20th of July, just a few weeks earlier. She'd been asleep especially late that morning for whatever reason, but when she awoke she found that her father, the chauffeur, a Mr. Graham Godwin, and the car were gone. A note had been left on the kitchen table: "Gone for drive with Burton, will be back by two." But of course, he never came back. And later that day, the police showed up with the awful news, there'd been an accident. Stephen Sanford was dead. The accident happened in a secluded area, no one had witnessed it. It seemed Mr. Sanford had fought Mr. Godwin for control of the car, and ended up crashing it into a tree. Miraculously, Mr. Godwin and Sanford's business partner, Alistair Burton, survived. Possibly by throwing themselves out at the last possible moment. It all seemed to line up with the police version of events, but Gwen still had the terrible feeling that something was amiss..._

"And you believe that this was no accident or suicide, but intentional murder?"

"Yes, sir- Ray, that is what I believe," Gwen repeated to me. "In fact I know. Don't ask me how, I just do. Could you please look into it further? I'll pay you extra, if you'd like-"

"That won't be necessary, Miss," I cut her off. "I don't do this for the money. And anyhow you've suffered enough with the loss of your father. I'll gladly look into your case."

"You will?" Gwen asked with renewed hope in her eyes. In that moment I knew I never wanted to see that hope burn out. I never wanted to be the one responsible for putting it out. I could say no, I could tell her that the greater likelihood pointed towards suicide or accidental death before murder, that I appreciated her coming to see me, but I had to recommend that she simply try to accept the police verdict and move on with her life. I could have said any of those things. But I didn't. Cases like these are the reason I took the job. For people who's stories weren't believed. Who were ignored by the police.

"Yes, Miss Sanford. I'll take your case."

Gwen practically leapt out of her chair as soon as I said this. "Oh thank you, this means so much more than you'll ever know!"

_To be completely candid, I live for a reaction like that. It's the reason I started this venture, to make people's lives better. Again, I felt that urge to hug her, to promise her that I would do anything to solve this case, but I simply couldn't in good conscience make that promise. Not yet. I didn't even know for a fact yet that there had even been a crime..._

"I'll need to examine your estate as well as photos of the scene of the incident to make a determination on how we should go forward. I can obtain the latter from the police department. Would you be willing to let me search your home?"

"Yes, of course. Would you like to drop by tomorrow?"

"It would be my pleasure, Miss Sanford."

She smiled at me again, I felt my heart race again. "I knew I made the right choice in contacting you, Mr. Allison. I do hope you'll grow accustomed to calling me by my name, though."

I returned her smile. "It's only been a few minutes, Miss Sanford. Give me some time."

"How about tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow will do."

"I'll be waiting for you."

I stood up. "I'm going to get to the bottom of this one way or the other, Gwen. We'll find out what really happened to your father."

_And with that we shook hands and I bid her a polite farewell. Officially, I was still technically eligible to take on more cases. For a PI, as the old adage goes, the more cases you take, the more money you make. But the truth was, I had already started to become fixated on the Sanford case. It would become my sole pursuit for however long it took. If it was true, and there was a murderer out there, then they had to be caught. I couldn't wait to pay the estate a visit tomorrow. Whether that was out of my interest in catching this cold blooded killer, or in Gwen, or some combination of the two, had yet to he determined..._

* * *


	2. August 10th, 1947

_By the next day, the rare sunshine that had blessed our town had regrettably reverted to the usual grey overcast and the steady fall of summer rain. In retrospect...maybe I should have seen it as a sign. After sleeping on it, I'd dedicated myself to pursuing this case with everything I had, and that meant I hadn't a second to waste. So the first thing that morning, after making sure my documents were in order, I made my way from my office to the police station, leaving Ms. Mosely with instructions to tell all potential clients that my time was currently occupied. I'd left some recommemdations for other private investigators who could potentially take on cases in my absence._

_You see, in our business, we don't have many friends, but we do know the other folks working the streets. It's an unsual move, to be sure, giving clients to the competition, but in my mind, solving Sanford's death was the only priority. In fact I'm firmly of the belief that even if I had received a call that day that the president of the United States had been assassinated, and my presence was requested, I would have still turned it down._

_You may wonder why I was so inclined to this way of thinking, and I wish I could pinpoint an exact reason. Maybe it was the desire for fame, to be known as the man who solved the "Murder of the Century", a dubious honor given to just about any high profile murder these days, but the murder of Stephen Sanford would have surely been in the running. Maybe it was the look of pure despair I saw in Gwen Stanford's eyes yesterday. The fear that she would never have closure, that her father's death would remain a shadow hanging over her forever. I hated for any client to have that look on their face, but to see it on Miss Sanford's drove a dagger through my heart. Maybe it was then that I knew I had to find the truth._

_And so, on that cold, dreary day, I had set out on foot, walking for hours at a pace that was neither a stroll nor a jog so as to not raise suspicion. For one could never be sure when you might be watched or followed in this city. Crime was abundant, and the organised variety in particular was booming. The police were a fifty-fifty shot at best to be on my side in this matter, given the rumors of rampant corruption in the department, yet they were my only chance to get crucial information needed to get a solid footing._

_I kept my head down just enough to hide my face beneath the brim of my hat. I can only venture to guess what the people who walked by me must have thought. The innocent parents rushing with their children to get indoors out of the chilly rain, the men and women spending a lazy Sunday browsing the shops in spite of the weather, the couples enjoying a romantic moment in the soft downpour. They couldn't have known of the tragic nature of my mission. And it was better that way. I prefer my work to be done out of the spotlight. The only kind of attention for me was bad attention, at least that was what I had always believed, although my interaction with Miss Sanford was still replaying in my mind, making me question everything I thought I knew. Even so, my instincts as a PI prevailed today, so when several minutes later, I walked into that police station, I made absolutely sure I hadn't been followed..._

**Sunday, August 10th, 1947**

**The office of the New York Police Department**

"You're Raymond Allison, aren't you?" The woman at the desk inquired of me with a skeptical gaze. "The investigator."

I really should have known someone would recognize me. It was the golden age of the private eye in New York, with the crime rate as high as ever and the police proving to be inadequate at best. We were minor celebrities, but unlike Marilyn Monroe or Joe DiMaggio, we weren't likely to get a rousing cheer. Certainly not from the cops, whom we were making look even worse. I had been hoping to avoid undue attention here, I suppose that was just a fool's dream.

"Yes, I am. If it's not too much to ask, though, I would prefer to keep my visit as confidential as possible," I responded in a low voice.

The woman, middle aged with grey hair, nodded and told me that the chief of the NYPD, Vincent Pirelli, would be available to speak with me soon. So I took a seat, picked up a copy of the morning paper, and started biding my time. I wasn't so much reading as I was deflecting attention. It's pretty well established that you don't disturb a man with a newspaper unless it's for a good reason, but I did manage to take note of the headlines, or rather, the complete absence of a particular story that should have been splashed all over the papers, the death of Stephen Sanford. So, with this cover established, I tried to recall all the information I had picked up about the Sanford case up to this point, which had come, incidentally enough, from the intial press coverage of the purported accident.

What did I know? I knew that Stephen Sanford was in his late fifties, had been wildly successful since inheriting the company from his own father, who had, through sheer tenacity and ambition, made the company a household name during the Great War. After Sanford Sr. decided it was time to pass the torch to his heir apparent Sanford Jr., the son picked up right where the father left off. Although the country was at peace, Sanford sure didn't act like it, as he continued to make cutting edge tools or war and, with the blessing of the government, send them to our allies overseas. It was no secret that Sanford was a major supporter of military intervention, whether it had popular support or not. And if it did have support, it was usually in no small part thanks to lobbyists with deep connections to Sanford and his business. The way I saw it now, assuming it was a murder, there were three major avenues of criminal theory that this could fall into. The first was that it was completely random. This seemed the least likely to me because of the circumstances of his death. The second possibility, and the one that was drawing my fancy at the moment, was that of a business motivated crime. Perhaps it had to do with technically legal, but unethical conduct, which Mr. Sanford was known for. Or perhaps it was of a more sinister nature.

If this had been a business related killing, it would leave plenty of suspects. Communist sympathizers, anti-war groups, anarchists, business rivals, disgruntled clients or employees. On the other hand, there was the third possibility, the one I knew as an investigator I could not simply dismiss. That's because I knew from experience that many murders were committed by a person or persons close to the victim. It was certainly just as plausible that one of Mr. Sanford's servants could have been tbe culprit. Or even, and I hated that the thought even occurred to me, but as an investigator I had to consider every possible angle, that Miss Sanford herself was involved. This case was unusual even by my standards, and I knew I had to be prepared for layers upon layers of investigative work. This was merely the first step.

The reason I was here was quite simple. I needed something to go on if I was going to determine whether Miss Sanford's murder angle held any truth to it. This meant I would need eyewitness testimony regarding the movements of all on the day of the incident, as well as photos of the scene of the accident. Having these photographs would assist my investigation greatly, as would any statements that had been made by witnesses regarding them. If the police had determined that there was nothing further to go on, then the photos would show what they had seen, and it would become clear whether it was as they said, or if it was all a sham investigation, as I suspected it might be. I also knew it would be a good idea to have a look at their documentation. To see if anything had been overlooked.

"Mr. Allison? The chief will see you now."

I glanced up at the sound of my name coming from the woman at the desk and promptly folded my newspaper. It was time for me to take the first steps towards uncovering the truth, whatever it may be.

If you've never had the good fortune of meeting New York's chief of police, consider yourself lucky. Even before I walked in that office, I could smell the thick, overpowering smoke wafting out of it. In more ways than one, smoke was a good metaphor for Chief Pirelli, a squat, surly man in his sixties with a sour face, a vicious personality and a reputation for unpredictability. Or perhaps he was predictable, in that the only moral principle to which he steadfastly clung was to take the advice of whomever had spoken to him last. It was a dangerous quality to have when just about everyone in this town had a motive to bribe him, and sometimes it didn't seem like he put up much of a fight. People couldn't decide if the Chief was simply incompetent or a cunning crook operating right under everybody's noses. It helped the Chief that he had a strong relationship with the attorney general of New York, meaning he really was practically untouchable. Whether he was strong or weak, Chief Pirelli styled himself as a man who ruled with an absolute iron fist. He was the silent influencer, the man behind the curtain. No arrest of great consequence in a murder investigation was made in this city until it had his stamp of approval.

Known as much for questionable practices and possible corruption as for their legendary crime fighting exploits, I knew better than to simply trust the findings of the NYPD, especially with this man at the helm. The only thing that bothered me was this: if Gwen Sanford was right, and it was a cover up, then why? Why would the police have closed the case so quickly and declared it a suicide? If anything, wouldn't there be a greater motive to say it was murder? By saying suicide, they had essentially shoved the case under the rug. I'd been around murder cases long enough to know that the death of someone like Stephen Sanford doesn't get shoved under the rug unless it's for a good reason. I just didn't know what that reason was. The question hung over me, frustratingly just out of reach.

"Mr. Allison, I'm told you have an interest in the Sanford case?" The Chief spoke to me in an accent so thick I could hardly decipher it. His demeanor seemed casual as he took a long puff of his cigar. I had to figure out his angle before he figured out mine. He held all the cards right now. And if perhaps he thought he could deter me from my aim. But I had made a promise to Gwen that I would at least attempt to conduct this investigation, and I intended to keep that promise with or without the help of the police.

"Yes sir," I answered as calmly as I could. "As I'm sure you're aware, Chief Pirelli, I am a private investigator hired by my clients to conduct investigations for them when the police...ah, for lack of a better phrase, lag a bit behind."

Chief Pirelli gave me a sleazy grin that made me all at once uncomfortable and angry. "Well now, as I'm sure _you're_ aware, Mr. Allison, we here at the department do our utmost to ensure justice is delivered in every case. But as they say, the wheels of justice grind slowly, and when that happens...well, that's what folks like you are for I suppose."

The police often derided us private investigators as little better than vigilantes, so I was used to this sort of language. I tried to keep my cool.

"I suppose you're right about that."

"Of course I am. I am curious, though. This particular case was closed in rather routine fashion. A clear finding of suicide. What interest does it hold for you?"

I leaned forward ever so imperceptibly. This was the point where I needed to make my case to the Chief for why I needed as many documents from the case file as possible.

"That's just it sir, I'm not so certain that suicide makes sense here."

The chief tossed his old cigar in the ashtray and lit up a new one. "What makes you say that, kiddo? You know I've been working in this department for over twenty years. I think I'd know a suicide when I see one."

He offered me a cigar, which I declined. I wasn't opposed to smoking, but I sure wasn't going to partake in any social behavior with this man. I couldn't tell if was trying to rattle me, get under my skin by his nonchalant demeanor. I wouldn't let him. "Here's my working theory of the case sir. And keep in mind that I haven't seen any of the evidence yet. Only what's been reported in the papers. So Steve Sanford, his business partner Alistair Burton, and Sanford's chauffeur, Graham Godwin, go for a drive at about eleven in the morning. An hour later, the vehicle crashes into the tree and bursts into flames. Somehow, both Mr. Burton and Mr. Godwin managed to escape the car in time, leaving Mr. Sanford to his fiery demise."

"Yes, that's about how it went," the Chief concurred coolly, taking another drag of the cigar.

"Yet by the papers' own admission, the only firsthand account of the incident is that of Mr. Burton. The chauffeur hasn't spoken a word. We are to take Burton's word, and his word alone, for the entire account?"

"We can only make judgments based upon what is _real_ , Mr. Allison. Not mere speculation."

"My theory, Chief Pirelli, is that Stephen Sanford did not in fact commit suicide that day. Something else occurred."

"What do you suppose it was then? An accident? _Murder_?" He gave me a look on that last word that told me that he wasn't taking my claims seriously. I knew I had to think of something quickly.

"I have a reasonable belief that it was murder, sir. And I think that one of the men in that car is responsible."

The chief seemed to size me up with his eyes. Perhaps now he was beginning to realize that I would not give up on my inquiry so easily. Of course, we both knew he was in the position of power. He alone had the ability to grant me access to the case file. And yet I was decidedly not going to participate in any acts of bribery. I would depend only on my own wits to get what I needed.

"That's an awful bold theory, buddy. You know I usually don't bother giving out police resources to private investigators who partake in such brazen levels of speculation."

"With all respect, sir-"

"I wasn't finished," Chief Pirelli said with another drag of his cigar. "I like you Ray, can I call you Ray?" He didn't wait for me to answer, and simply continued to talk. "I admire your strength and determination, Ray. That underdog spirit that keeps you pursuing a hopeless cause, always believing things will turn out all right in the end. You know, you even remind me of my younger self in some ways. That's why even though I think you're completely deluded, I'll let you review the case file."

He'd completely disarmed me. Had the Chief just given me his crude version of a psychological profile? And had he really just surrendered to my request, just like that?

"You will?" I asked, incredulous. It must have been like one of those comedy sketches you see in a cartoon, where the clueless villain realizes his hare-brained scheme has actually succeeded, only now he has no idea what to do next, thinking to himself, _I never thought I'd get this far._

The Chief waved his hand wildly through the smoke. "Hell, take it all, we don't need it anymore. Far as I'm concerned, this case is closed. I see no harm in lettin' you poke around if it'll make you feel better."

And that was it. Within a few minutes, with the Chief's blessing, I had the entire case file loaded into my car and was all set for the next part of my journey. It had all been so remarkably easy, almost too easy.

_In fact I knew it was too easy, I'd certainly been expecting more of a fight from the chief than that. For him to suddenly give in to request aroused a great suspicion in me almost as bad as if he would have turned me down. Maybe worse. I'd walked into the station under the impression that the police might have covered the Sanford case up. Now here was Chief Pirelli essentially giving me the keys to the kingdom. It didn't make any sense. This case was getting more peculiar all the time. But I had quickly put these thoughts out of my mind at the time. My first task had been a resounding success. I had access to everything the police had uncovered about Sanford's death. Photos, reports, witness testimony, if any. Now that my business with the police was over for the foreseeable future, it was time to check out the Sanford estate..._


	3. Sunday, Augsut 10th, 1947 (The Estate)

_The whole drive to the estate, I found my thoughts consumed by the case, by Gwen Sanford, by the strange behavior of the police. Part of me was hoping there was no crime, that I could pack up and go home and take on some other cases, more straightforward ones. And yet...I have to admit that another part of me was hoping for the opposite. That there was more. That my instincts weren't wrong. That I would get to see Miss Sanford again. So I drove, consumed by these thoughts, content that traffic was practically nil on this rainy day as my car sloshed through the streets, accompanied by the pitter-patter of raindrops lightly rapping against my windshield. I twirled the dial on the radio until it stopped on a station playing some lively jazz numbers. I guess I was hoping that some music could help me forget the thoughts I was having. I've loved music from a young age, even took lessons and briefly considered a career there before my path took me to where I was now. Even the usually calming strains of music weren't enough today however..._

About half an hour later, I had arrived on Long Island, passing through several working-class neighborhoods, and it wasn't long after that when I began to notice the change. Nicer roads, nicer cars, folks dressed in their Sunday best. Then I began see the towering and elegant Victorian mansions which were the telltale sign that I was nearing my destination. Finally, several minutes into my search, I found the specific one I was looking for: 1662 Seagrove Lane. It wasn't difficult to recognize. Everyone by now knew what the Sanford home looked like from its frequent appearance in the papers. It was positively regal with its wide windows and classic architectural curvature.

I suppose I would have to say that it's defining feature was the luscious garden, which Miss Sanford was currently tending to as I pulled up in the driveway. I knew according to local lore that the garden first been planted by the Sanfords several years ago to support the home front during the early stages of the war. After Mrs. Sanford's unfortunate passing, Mr. Sanford had taken the utmost consideration that it should be tended to in memory of his wife. Now that both her parents were gone, I realized, this was Gwen's last connection to both of them. I could see it in her eyes as she slowly stood and waited for me, the agony of being orphaned, the desperation to have closure. It only hardened my resolve to do whatever I could for her. I quickly disembarked from the car, bringing the box of documents I had obtained from the police with me.

After I'd taken several steps, she suddenly broke her stoic stance and ran towards me. She was dressed far less elegantly than the day before, though this did little to diminish her beauty in my eyes. More importantly, I needed to see that she was all right. That she would be able to handle the facts of this investigation, whatever they revealed. "Ray, I'm so glad to see you. I...well I had started to wonder if you were going to show up."

"I apologize for taking as long as I did, Miss Sanford. You know how the police can be."

"Trust me, I know. Is that the case file?" She gestured to the box I held.

"Yes, it is."

She nodded. "We'd better talk inside."

So I followed her down the path, up the small set off stairs on tbe front porch, and through the great wooden doors into the estate. It was as grandiose on the inside as it appeared on the outside. I found myself looking around the wide foyer, finding everything rather overwhelming. A chandelier hung just above and in front of the door, a sort of Statue of Liberty, welcoming me to this foreign land. Just beyond the foyer to the left was the parlour, with its comfortable couches and tables practically inviting the company of the elite and wealthy, and the walls were decorated with the finest artwork money could buy. It also had a state of the art radio and a record player next to a large shelf lined with disc sleeves. This room must have entertained many powerful individuals, I realized. It felt so strange standing here where they once had, it made me feel even more small and out of place than I already did.

Directly ahead was a grand staircase leading to the labyrinthine second floor, which seemed to be a maze of doorways. I had a feeling the other rooms weren't going to be so easy to identify. Fortunately, Gwen offered to give me a tour, to which I eagerly agreed. Offically, it was common sense seeing as how the layout of the house could prove critical to the theory of what took place on that fateful morning. Unofficially, I had never set foot inside a place so breathtaking in appearance and scale. It took my breath away. Gwen led me up the elegantly carpeted staircase which branched off in two directions that both met in here. In other words, the only way to get from one side of the upstairs to the other was to come here where they were adjoined. Maybe that was a detail to take note of. Maybe it was nothing. At this point in the case, I knew I had to keep my mind open to all possibilities.

I found that Gwen was a natural tour guide. Not that I needed much convincing to be impressed, but she multiplied that feeling of trust that was building within me exponentially. We started with the left side of the staircase, the easier side. These rooms, it seemed, were mostly reserved for Mr. Sanford's business and pleasure. There was an office which Gwen explained to me would normally have been piled up with paperwork. Elsewhere, there was a large room with a pool table and a mini bar, which was popular for whenever her father had guests. There were a few other rooms which were said to be reserved for "special company", although what that meant exactly even Gwen could not, or would not, say. I made another note of it. This, I had a feeling was indeed important information.

And then there was Mr Sanford's room itself, the master bedroom. At first glance the room seemed somewhat unremarkable, or perhaps I had simply adjusted to the splendor of the mansion. For it was still decorated opulently with hung classical paintings as with the foyer. Its defining feature was a tall cabinet on the wall opposite the bed, the center of which held a small screen situated above a dashboard of dials and buttons. I was vaguely familiar with the new technology of home television, which was the latest fascination of the rich and powerful. I suppose I shouldn't have beem surprised that Mr. Sanford owned a set. It was an ode to his prestigious status as a New York elite, as a man who moved in highly influential, and possibly dangerous, circles. The room seemed haunted. Someone had slept here until very recently. Now the room was vacant, but I felt a presence. A powerful presence that demanded justice. Was it Sanford? My own thoughts and fears projecting onto the deceased? Whatever it was, I knew that presence would follow me until I found the truth.

"It's so strange to come here and know that he'll never sleep in that bed again," Gwen said softly. "We disagreed so often, we argued, we shouted. I often wondered why I stayed at all. Now I just wish I could have at least had a chance to tell him goodbye."

I stood next to Gwen in silence for several moments. I thought about reaching out to her, telling her that things were going to be all tight, but before I could contemplate this further, I felt her press herself against me, quietly sobbing into my chest. And I just held her, in that moment, it was the only thing I wanted to do. To show her that she wasn't alone.

Gwen continued to hold my arm as we resumed the tour. I knew she hasn't completely recovered from her previous episode, but I decided not to bring it up again. There was nothing more I could do but give her space to grieve. On the right side of the second floor, I found out that Gwen's room was the second nearest to the staircase. The nearest was used by Stephen Sanford's personal chauffeur, Graham Godwin, presumably so he could ready whenever he was called upon. It was rare, I knew, for a servant to get his own room in a mansion like this. Godwin must have been highly regarded and trusted by Mr. Sanford to be given this honor. As I was not yet actively searching for evidence, I simply allowed myself to take in each room as we passed by it. Mr. Godwin's was, as expected, rather simplistic and plain when compared to the rest of the house, but even so there was still an elegance, understated perhaps, but present. It was neat and tidy. Whether that was because Mr. Godwin kept it that way or because the Sanfords' other servants looked after it wasn't clear, but I made a mental note of it all.

"And this is my room," Gwen said as she opened the door to reveal a comfortable looking room with lavishly crafted walls, a cosy bed, a reading chair and desk, and large glass doors draped with curtains that were currently drawn back leading out to a balcony. It held all the trappings of wealth and a life many could only dream of, yet Gwen seemed almost ashamed of it.

"All this money and what did it get me?" She whispered so quietly that I barely heard, a question that appeared directed more to herself than to me, and again I was struck by the magnitude of the loss she must be enduring.

There was also a music room, of which the centerpiece was a sleek black Steinway grand piano that glistened in the sun, which was finally beginning to emerge from the morning rain. I resisted the opportunity to inform Gwen that I also played the piano on occasion, as it did not seem like the right moment at all. I also noticed several other instruments lined around the wall, including violins, cellos, and a guitar.

I was surprised, however, when she spoke, as if a memory had awakened in her. "I've learned how to play most of these. My father insisted on it. He said it would occupy my time sufficiently so that I wouldn't get into any trouble. Do you play anything?"

"A bit of piano," I offered, since she had asked.

She smiled despite the sadness in her eyes. "Maybe you'll play for me sometime."

The exchange was brief, though it lingered with me, another moment my mind would surely drift back to and replay over and over again, and within moments we moved on.

Our last stop was a library with several shelves of books and a table looking out on another spectacular view. I set the box of evidence on the table and set off to explore the room with Gwen. It was filled with books on just about every possible subject, from classical literature to historical to war to even modern murder-mysteries, a topic that Gwen confessed to me was of her personal fascination. Her despondent mood of earlier seemed to have cleared up when we began talking about this. It lifted my own spirits considerably to see it. I wanted to see her happy all the time.

"Who's your favorite?" I asked as we browsed the selection.

"Agatha Christie certainly," Gwen replied with enthusiasm.

"Ah, Mr. Poirot?" I asked, having little more than a general knowledge of this particular subject, and knowing only that he was the most famous of Christie's creations.

"Everybody says he's their favorite, but personally I have a preference for Miss Marple," Gwen answered with another one of her subtle smiles.

We kept walking, slower now, taking each step with deliberation. "What is it about Miss Marple, then?"

Gwen stopped suddenly, as though something on the bookshelf had caught her eye. Sure enough, her soft fingers gently knifed through the formidable wall of volumes and curled around one particular book, which she delicately removed and held in her hands to show me. It was a Christie novel, Murder at the Vicarage.

"She's underestimated. Whether it's because she's old, or a woman, or both. Always underestimated. Yet more often than not, she's right in the end."

I was beginning to understand Gwen's state of mind in coming to my office yesterday. Perhaps there was a part of her that, like Miss Marple, had that elusive sixth sense telling her something wasn't right. Maybe even if I'd said no, she would have done some digging on her own. No doubt she possessed full confidence that she had the willpower and intelligence to simply solve this case by herself.

"It's dangerous business, Gwen," I cautioned her. "And I'm not saying that because you're a woman. It's your father. You know as well as I do that he wasn't exactly an angel. Suppose you're right, and he was murdered. He had many potential enemies. Powerful enemies. People we might not even know about."

Gwen's eyes met my own. And I saw the passion burning in them. An emerald spark of flame that could have burned a hole through me. "I'm fully aware of my father's...questionable practices, and I disagreed with most of them. I never liked the idea of a company whose entire aim is to profit off of war."

"Then you understand the risk you've taken just by contacting me?"

She suddenly took my hands in hers. "I do understand. I went to you because I believe you're the only one who can help me solve my father's murder."

"Now hold on a minute, let's not get ahead of ourselves. You're my client, Miss Sanford. It's my responsibility to get justice for you, but I also take it as personal matter that you should be safe. And I just couldn't bear the burden on my conscience if I let something happen to you."

Gwen subtly but noticeably closed the distance between us, we were barely inches apart. I felt as though I were in a trance-like state, an outside observer watching this all take place with no input of my own. That great yearning in my heart for companionship had never been so strong as it was then. But I feared that my words may have angered her. A bad relationship with a client could not only lead to lost business, but a failed investigation. A murderer set loose. It was the one thing I could never do. I feared I had already dug myself too deep a hole, allowed myself to get too attached.

"Can I confess something to you, Mr. Allison?"

I looked up at her anxiously. "What's that?"

"I like you. I don't know what it is about you, but I like you. You're not like the men from my father's world, the ones he often tried to pair me off with. You have empathy, you have feelings. That's why you don't want me in harm's way. But you must understand this case concerns me, and my family. I want to do my part to find whoever did this. In fact I insist upon it. And if that is not agreeable to you and you want to leave, I understand. Truthfully I was going to try to find answers before I came to you and I will go on alone if it comes to that, but I'd much rather we work on it together."

I sighed. I guessed there wasn't going to be any talking her out of it. Anyways, I knew she was right, she had a personal stake in the case, I couldn't deny that. And I did need her expertise on the family. It was the most difficult decision I'd ever had to make. A decision that could change the course of the investigation. I was fully within my rights, and some might even argue my moral duties to resign from this case. To accept that I had become compromised personally. One thing you learn quickly as a PI is that working alone is best because emotions don't get in the way. You don't have to worry about being distracted from your true objective, which is solving your case. This then, was another sign from fates, a final chance to say I was out. But Gwen...she was special. She wasn't the uptight rich girl I thought she'd be based on my first impression of her. She was courageous, determined, kindhearted, and deceptively intelligent to those who might have made the same assumptions I did. The truth was, I wasn't ready to part ways with her. I didn't think I ever would be. So what could I do? I ignored the sign and went full speed ahead. I accepted her offer.

"Fine, we'll work on it together."

"Good," Gwen smiled and spoke with comfidence, but underneath that smile I could sense a great deal of relief on her part. She had been genuinely afraid that I might walk away right then and there. I knew in my heart that wouldn't happen, I couldn't bring myself to abandon her. I gestured back to the table where I left the box of evidence.

"Let's get started. We've got a lot of evidence to review."

Gwen had agreed, and so we slowly reversed our course to the way we'd come. It's funny how your perspective on a room, on a case, on a person, changes so drastically just by walking in the opposite direction. When we came in, I'd got the impression of a grand old dusty library. Now, with the sun shining brightly through the massive windows, imbuing all bookshelves and walls touched with a golden light that only increased its regal appearance. It was like something out of a dream. A room of mystique and wonder. Just like the woman walking beside me. What I didn't realize at the time, the detail my mind always goes back to on this day, is that during that whole walk, we never let go of each other's hand...


	4. Sunday, August 10th, 1947 (Suspicion)

_Gwen and I spent nearly an hour reviewing the police file together. I'd like to say we learned a great many insights into his death, but I had my suspicions that the police file would not prove to be a great help to us, which would also explain why Chief Pirelli was so eager to let me have it in the first place. It didn't take for it to appear as though my suspicions had been proven correct, for Gwen became so upset by the apparent whitewashing of this investigation that she decided to go for a walk to calm down, and asked me to call for her if there was any information of actual consequence contained in the file. She assured me that her father's former servants, who were now employees of hers as the sole heiress, were still working full-time and would be on hand to deliver the message..._

**Sunday, August 10th, 1947**

**Afternoon**

**1662 Seagrove Lane, Sanford Estate**

**Long Island, New York**

I was of course reluctant to let her go. Gwen was a key part of the investigation now, and if anyone with ill intention knew that...well there wasn't much I could do from all the way across the mansion if someone decided to attack her. And there was still the prospect that if this was a murder, the Sanfords themselves may have been targets, meaning Gwen could still be very much in danger. I doubted I could go on in this case if something should have happened to her, I would have been driven to despair, possibly even resignation. But Gwen assured me she would be safe, and it was then that she showed me something that I certainly hadn't been expecting, a Colt .45, standard issue during the war. I wasn't surprised that Stephen Sanford, an arms manufacturer and a known gun enthusiast, would keep several firearms in his home, but I was surprised to see Gwen with one. It was yet another unexpected side of her.

"My father gave me this for my sixteenth birthday," she sighed.

I was stunned. "He gave you _that_?"

"But that wasn't all, he actually gave me a choice between this and a .357."

"That's some birthday present. I will say this, it shows he had trust in you."

"I guess so, but I know the real reason was because he didn't know what else to get me. He grew up in a culture worlds away from the everyday lives of children in white picket neighborhoods. He didn't understand why kids would want a new vinyl record or a bike, those things were frivolous, they were things my mother understood, but not him. To him, a gun was as endearing as any present, as a hug or a kiss."

"It's an odd way of showing you care, but I suppose he could've done worse..."

"Oh certainly," Gwen answered, though her tome indicated anything but certainty.

"You don't strike me as the kind who takes to guns, if you don't mind my saying."

"I don't care for them, no. But I can and will use it if the need arises. Daily practice at a private shooting range, another of my father's "activities", ensures that."

I shook my head, finding Mr. Sanford becoming a more unusual man all the time. First giving Gwen a gun, then giving her lessons? These were unusual things to be taking place in any household, but particularly one as wealthy and prominent as the Sanfords, who could afford to pay for round the clock security if they had wished, if Mr. Sanford had wished. According to what I knew of him, he was a very frugal man when it came such matters, not willing to pay a single dime beyond what he was already giving the usual staff of servants. Yet he invested such time in turning his daughter into a capable wielder. This wasn't adding up to much of anything. Unless...unless the old man was so paranoid that something was going to happen that he decided to arm his own family in order to protect himself. The thought struck me like s bolt of lightning. I nearly found myself opening my mouth to tell Gwen, but I knew it wasn't worth saying now, it was still just speculation, at least until I found evidence to support it. Even so, I had just become more convinced that whatever happened to Stephen Sanford was no accident.

"Well look, take care, all right? I can't solve this case without you."

"I will," she said quietly, and with that she slipped out of the library.

It was just another little piece of the larger overall puzzle. A small insight into the mind of Stephen Sanford and his only living child. The image of Gwen holding that gun, another pained reminder of her orphaned status, a symbol of that which she both disdained yet was practically forced to hold near...it was another frozen moment in time sure to follow me, sure to haunt me, until closure had been obtained. I tried to get back to work to allow the image to fade, and slowly it did, but it always remained there, in the back of my mind.

It had now been several minutes since Gwen's departure, and I still found myself no closer to finding anything of value in the police investigation file. Stephen Sanford was an extremely private man, of that there was little doubt. While he wasn't shy of the press, he rarely ever discussed personal matters, nor apparently, did he reveal much of his motives to Gwen. Aside from the things that everybody knew, that he was a wealthy and powerful businessman, he kept almost exclusively to his inner circle. I'd hoped that perhaps the case file from the police investigation would at least shed some light on these matters. Would perhaps provide some reasoning behind their theory of suicide. Maybe some witness statements from people who could back up the claim that he was devastated at the losses his company was dealing with, that he was in a state that could lead to a manic decision like the one purportedly taken that fateful morning.

Unfortunately, the majority of investigation had established little more than the basic facts of the case that were published in the paper. That Sanford, his chauffeur Graham Godwin, and his business partner Alistair Burton, had gone out for a drive that morning, that at some point the car had ventured into a secluded area, and that it had crashed into the tree, causing a fire to erupt, killing Sanford instantly, yet miraculously leaving the other two unscathed. The police seemed to be under the impression that Sanford had somehow taken control of the car, and that this was how he killed himself. Godwin and Burton survived by throwing themselves out of the car at the last possible moment. The motive? He was in dire financial straits. He couldn't live with the possibility of losing everything. So, feeling the squeeze of his mounting bills and with no where else to turn, he had made the fateful decision that day. Perhaps he'd even planned it out. Intending all along to end his life on that drive all along.

On paper at least, the police explanation seemed somewhat plausible. It didn't directly contradict any known facts. Even so, I felt in my gut that there was something not quite right with these findings. There was something missing. For one thing, if Sanford wanted to end his own life, why do it this way? There were sinpler means of suicide. A firearm of which he owned plenty, or an overdose. Leaping from one of these balconies would have sufficed for that matter, as crude and terrible as it would have been to his family. Furthermore, he would have been taking a tremendous risk by attempting to do this with two other men in the car who could have stopped him. What if he had failed to completely take control of the car and had only ended up badly injured instead? It was far from a sure thing.

No, if he'd been intent on suicide, this wouldn't be logical. But there were other reasons for my suspicions to be aroused. Namely, business reasons. Sanford Munition Co. was jointly owned by Stephen Sanford and Alistair Burton. If both men had been killed in the crash, the company would've been in even deeper trouble than before. I didn't know much about Sanford, but I did know that Sanford Munition Co. was one of the few things in this world he was known to deeply care for. It was his inheritance, passed down from his own father. I also knew he was a family man, and if the company failed, his daughter would have been financially ruined.

On the other hand, if there was foul play involved, there was good reason to suspect Burton. He was a shadowy figure about whom little was known, besides the fact that he was part of that fabled inner circle of Sanford's, and that he stood to gain everything in the company from his death. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was becoming that Gwen was right, this was murder. The question was then, if it was murder, then who? Burton? He seemed the obvious suspect, but I couldn't rule anyone else out. Just as I had begun to give up hope on finding anything of value in the case file, I reached the very back of the folder, and there it was: a solitary witness statement, and some testimony from Mr. Burton, as well other servants in the Dare household. It wasn't much, but it was all I had to go on...

"Would you like something to drink, Mr. Allison?"

The voice shocked me so much, I nearly jumped out of the chair. I tried to calm my nerves as I glanced up at the middle aged maid addressing me. She looked harmless enough. But I was starting to realize that whoever had done this to Mr. Sanford would have almost certainly had to have either come from this household or been very intimate with its inner workings. I couldn't let my guard down for even a second.

"Ah, no thank you, I'm fine. But will you please tell Miss Sanford that I would like to speak with her privately? it's in regards the case."

"Yes of course, Mr. Allison."

I nodded my thanks as she retreated from the library, leaving me alone once more. Figuring I had a few minutes at most before Gwen returned, I began to read all the statements that had been given to the police. The most important, and as it turned out only, eyewitness statement that had led to the police to their conclusion was given by man identified as Carter Matthews who lived just a few hundred yards away from the murder. It seems Mr. Matthews had told the police that he had been talking a morning stroll when he actually saw the car veer suddenly and crash. He became understandably alarmed by this terrible sequence of events, and quickly rushed to the scene. He said that he saw Godwin and Burton leaving the scene at about 1:30. This lined up with Burton's account, which was also contained in the file, in which he stated that they had left at around noon and gone at a leisurely pace, discussing business dealings, until suddenly Sanford suggested they take a different route, a more secluded, sparsely traveled road.

About half an hour later, Burton said, Sanford violently took control of the car and drove it into the tree. When police drove the same route as Burton had described, at the same speed at which he had claimed they were going, they found that it took them about 55 minutes to reach the bend, and about half an hour from there to reach the scene of the accident. In other words, the testimony seemed reasonable. Of course, it was possible Burton was lying about how fast they were going, but in the absence of other incriminating evidence, this would never hold up in a court of law. I needed more information. The servants didn't have much to say, other than it had been a typical morning. When asked if any developments had taken place recently however, several said that there had been a new maid in the house just weeks before the murder. Mr. Sanford apparently thought so highly of her that he gave her a guest house of her own on the estate property. A Miss Vera Walters...

I looked up again as I heard the door opening. As I glanced up in my guarded state, I half exepcted Miss Walters herself to walk through that door, but it was just Gwen, and behind her, a man I recognized by his photograph in the police file: the Sanford chauffeur: Graham Godwin.

He was a tall man, tall and slender. His classy attire, deferential posture, well-groomed appearance, and graceful mannerisms were that of a gentleman. I couldn't imagine him having any involvement in this case. And yet, I knew firsthand how deceiving appearances could be.

"Miss Nealy sent for me. Did you find out anything?" Gwen asked me.

I figured Miss Nealy must've been the middle aged maid I had spoken to earlier. "Not much more than we already knew. But I did come across some witness statements. And-" a thought reoccurred to me, one that had struck me as strange from the very beginning, as I looked at Graham Godwin's stoic face again. "And I noticed that you had nothing to say, Mr. Godwin."

The chauffeur nodded solemnly. He spoke with an accent that seemed to have a soft Scottish lilt, which only added to his aura of gentility. "I have humbly served the Sanford family for most of my life. It is not my place to speak of their affairs publicly."

I pondered this. Was it genuine humility or a convenient excuse? I decided to humor him. Anything to keep him from suspecting that I was on to him.

"A man out of time in this modern age, I'd say. Mr. Sanford was very lucky to have you."

Godwin nodded grimly. "Thank you, sir. We all miss him terribly. Miss Sanford was just speaking of you. She says you are a private investigator?"

"That is correct, sir," I confirmed, checking for any signs of nervousness or anxiety and finding none. I still refused to let my guard down however. I was speaking to one of only two people who were present at the scene of the accident. Assuming murder, there was at least a fifty-fifty chance I was speaking to a killer.

"Mr. Sanford was a complex man with complex motives. I'm afraid that is all I can say."

"Not to worry, I promised Gwen I'd get to the truth, and that's what I intend to do." I assured him.

"I wish you the best of luck."

"Mr. Godwin, may we please have some privacy?" Gwen asked.

"Yes, Miss Sanford, of course, I apologize for imposing."

"That's quite all right."

And just as quickly as he'd arrived, Graham Godwin was gone. The consummate professional, I couldn't help but think. Was this mild-mannered chauffeur really capable of a crime so heinous? It was a question only a more protracted search would reveal the answer to.

I focused my gaze back on Gwen as she pulled up a chair next to me. She looked somewhat calmer than before, which was a good sign. We were only just getting started. "He's quite the gentleman, isn't he?"

"He certainly is. He's been my father's driver since before I was born. Incredibly loyal. One of the very few people who ever earned my father's trust."

"Trust?" And as I pondered that one word, as it made its way into the corners of my mind, my instincts kicked in again, spinning the wheels on the beginnings of a new theory of the case. That perhaps this perfect servant, who just happened to be one of three people in that car, who happened to be the one in complete control of the car, wasn't so perfect after all...

"He practically became a member of the family. Sometimes my father wouldn't even have to tell him where to go, he just... _knew_."

"A consummate professional," I said aloud this time as I picked up the folder with the most critical information we had yet and handed it to Gwen for her to examine. As she was reaching for the folder, our hands brushed, and I felt that current of electricity run through me again, although I tried my best to ignore it. This was becoming ever more difficult, so I tried to focus on a specific part of the dossier to avoid having to meet her gaze. "Well let's see what we've got so far. Seeing as how your father has passed on and Mr. Godwin didn't give a statment, the only account of the incident is from your father's business partner, Alistair Burton. There's no photograph of him here, may I ask if you know what he looks like?"

Gwen shook her head. "I've never met him. He was even more shady and secretive than my father."

"Well, according to the police, everything seemed to support Burton's telling of events. He even had a witness to back up his timeline who said that he witnessed the accident, as well as Burton and Godwin leaving the scene at around 1:30, the approximate time of the crash."

Gwen gave me a dejected look. "So that's it then."

"No, that's not it. And let me tell you why. Eyewitness testimony can be powerful, true. But it can also be subject to manipulation, misidentification, falsification, and human error."

"What are you saying, Ray?"

"I'm saying that the entire case for suicide or accidental death is based on two accounts, one from a person who was in the car, the other from a single eyewitness who didn't even see the actual incident."

"But you just said-"

I smiled because I already knew for a fact that this "witness" was lying. "I said what he claimed, not what actually took place. Take a look at these photos of the scene-" I pointed out several of the photographs I had pored over. It had taken me a while to reach the conclusion I did. I suspected it would not take Gwen nearly so long.

Gwen looked them over for several seconds, and sure enough, I saw her eyes light up, she'd realized it. "There's no skid marks!"

I couldn't help but smile. She was every bit my match in smarts. "No. And one would think that, if, as Mr. Burton and Mr. Matthews had said, there was a violent struggle for the car and a sudden change of direction at a high rate of speed, there would be some evidence of it. And yet the road appears completely undisturbed. This puts serious doubt into the suicide angle. In fact, it seems to suggest that there may not even have been a crash at all."

"A staged scene?" Gwen inquired breathlessly.

"Precisely," I answered. "And there's something else that points in this direction. This report from officers at the scene-" I showed her the paper, which had obviously been either ignored or buried by the police, if not misplaced by sheer incompetence. It blew the entire theory of a crash out of the water.

"Arson?" Gwen said in shock as she read the findings.

"That's right," I agreed. "The police on the scene clearly detected an accelerant which they identified as gasoline. Meaning not only was there no crash, but this whole thing is a set up. Someone wanted to make it appear like a crash to cover up the fact that it was murder. But we'll need to speak to that witness just to make sure."

"So you think Burton could be responsible for this?"

I sighed. The evidence so far was pointing that way, but the truth was far messier. Now that the car crash theory had been practically disproved, it meant Sanford could have been killed at any time from the morning of the 20th until the time when his body was found. It meant that everyone in close proximity to Mr. Sanford, with the means and opportunity, including Gwen, was technically a suspect. And there just wasn't going to be an easy way to tell her this.

"The way I see it, Gwen, there are five clear possibilities here. One: that this is exactly what it seems, exactly what the police said, a suicide. Two: that it was an accident. Three: that a complete stranger killed your father, Four: that someone else from your father's household or family killed him, and Five: that Graham Godwin or Alistair Burton, acting together or independently, killed him."

I then walked her through my logic as to steadily eliminating the other options. For the reasons we had already discussed, I didn't believe options one or two were likely. Three was equally unlikely. Four couldn't be ruled out. Five was probable. That left either four or five as the most likely probabilities.

I had to watch as it finally began to sink in for Gwen that somebody close to her father had committed the ultimate betrayal. She looked so physically ill at this point, I feared she might pass out. I already knew what her next question would be.

"When you say someone from our household-"

"I'm so sorry, Gwen. But it seems your suspicions may be correct. Someone has betrayed both you and your father's trust, and heaven knows how many others. This is a person who is conniving, manipulative, and a menace to society. It could be anyone from your father's inner circle."

As soon as I said that final part, I found myself regretting it, for Gwen appeared to have become expotentially more anxious.

She quickly wiped her tears away. "You don't suppose- that I had anything to do with it, do you?"

"I have no reason to think that, and I will always be truthful with you in who I suspect is the culprit, but you must also promise to be completely truthful with me."

"Of course. I promise."

"Good. I also was hoping you could tell me if you're familiar with a young woman named Vera Walters."

Gwen's eyes lit with recognition at the mention of the name. "Yes, I am. She was new here, but my father already seemed to have taken a liking to her. She worked odd hours, and often took weekend trips to visit relatives. Or so she said. She still lives in that guest house, quite comfortably, but she won't be back in town until tomorrow."

"You...don't sound too impressed by her," I noted as diplomatically as I could manage.

"Oh she's all right I suppose..." She heaved a sigh, as if weighing whether to say more. I wonder if I would have pressed her, but then she resumed, as if to keep our recently made bargain to be completely honest with each other. "Well if you want the truth, Ray, I don't trust her. She was here for a matter of weeks, then this happened. I don't like it. I think something's up."

I placed my hand on her arm in an attempt to calm her. She was so tense, it seemed as if she might shatter at any moment. I couldn't help but feel partly responsible for having caused her to feel this way. I always knew it was a risky venture to allow a client to become so closely involved in case, especially when she had such a intimate ties to the victim. This was my fault. My selfishness for wanting her near me. But it was too late to change that now.

"I'll talk to her the first chance I get. I promise whoever did this won't get away with it."

"I don't know what I'd have done without you." Gwen said gratefully.

"You said it yourself," I replied with a grin, "You'd have kept pressing. I believe you have more than a little investigator in you. That said, I'm glad you came to me, because the police clearly weren't interested in the truth. But together, I think we may just be on to something."

Gwen gave me another one of those smiles that made me glad I had let her assist me. It was this constant back and forth between my head and my heart, and at the moment, my heart was winning.

"I do need to ask you something, Gwen. May I search the rooms? Mr. Godwin's room specifically?"

She didn't respond at first, all I could see was look in her eyes...it was a reflection of what must surely have been in my own. We were all alone in here. I felt my heart pounding in my chest like a drum at an ever increasing tempo. "You may search whatever rooms you need to, on one condition. Actually, make it two."

"And what might those be?"

"The first, that I help you conduct your search. The second, that you stop acting so formal around me. It makes me feel even more aristocratic than many already perceive me, and I don't like that."

"I apologize if I've made you feel uncomfortable in any way. It's a courtesy in my profession to ask this of all our clients. It's not considered proper to simply intrude where one does not belong."

"I trust you."

"You hardly know me, Gwen."

She moved ever closer to me. I could smell her perfume, sweet as a rose from a spring meadow. To understand it you'd have had to have been there. To feel the subconcious gravitational pull that had come over me. This had never happened to me before. Not like this. "I know you well enough to know that you'll respect the boundaries that need respecting and disregard the ones that don't."

I took a deep breath and gave my best attempt at a calm tone. "All right Gwen, I accept your terms. Where is Mr. Godwin anyhow? Would he mind me searching his room?"

"Mr. Godwin has gone to visit an auto dealership."

"Just now getting a new car?" I mused.

"It's been such a traumatic couple of weeks, we hadn't even thought of it until recently."

_I nodded. We had some time before he returned. Valuable time to search with absolute privacy. It was better if Mr. Godwin was not present. If he was innocent, then he would not know we had ever suspected him. If he was guilty...well, we'd already be one step ahead..._


	5. Sunday, August 10th, 1947 (Waltz)

Together, Gwen and I returned to the room of Graham Godwin. While plain and unadorned compared to the family's rooms, it was rather elegant for that of a mere servant. Sleek, contemporary furniture, top of the line air conditioning and lighting. It even had its own bathroom, like the master bedroom. It was just further proof that Stephen Sanford had indeed felt a strong affinity for Mr. Godwin, for whatever reason. Loyalty, perhaps. Again, I found myself wondering what the chauffeur's motive for murder would be, if it existed. He seemed to be content working for Dare. There hadn't been any reports of incident or ill will by the other servants in the police file on the case.

Together, Gwen and I looked in every nook and cranny that we could possibly think of. The bed, the nightstand, inside the closet, in the bathroom. Still we couldn't find anything. Then I started pulling open the drawers of the large dresser. I dug through nearly folded clothes, hoping to find something, anything, that might point us in the right direction. That was when I saw it. Or rather, felt it. My fingers collided with it as a shovel might with a buried treasure chest, initially unaware, then rushing to procure the elusive object and bring it to the surface. And there it was: a plain envelope addressed from the Sanford Munition Co. to Graham Godwin himself. That was odd. Certainly I wasn't exactly privy to the inner workings of the Sanfords' business operations, but it did seem odd that the chauffeur would be on the receiving end of official company business.

Stephen Sanford could have told him anything he wanted in person, so there did not seem to be a need for such correspondence. As for the shadowy Burton...well, it could be assumed since Gwen had never even met him, that he and Graham Godwin weren't likely to have a particularly close relationship in any way either. Unless...I gently scooped up the envelope and looked at it more closely. Whatever was inside here could provide the break we were looking for, or it could lead to yet another dead end. Gwen had by now noticed that I had found something and quickly rushed to my side.

"What is it, Ray?"

"...I think it may be our first major breakthrough."

"How do you figure?" She asked, then she saw what I had seen, and she fell silent, as if pondering the very same implications that I had.

I showed her the envelope, more specifically, the date on it. July 23rd, 1947, just three days after the death of Stephen Sanford, enough on its own to raise suspicion. Then I slowly opened it, not knowing what I'd find. Well what I found was both unsurprising and a great shock. There were in fact two items, which I delicately handled. One was a check for no less than five thousand dollars from Sanford Munition Co. made out to Graham Godwin. The other was a cryptic note or letter that simply said:

"A token of appreciation from us to you. The loose end has been taken care of. Take care, T."

Gwen gasped and covered her mouth in disbelief.

"Theory number five looks awfully good right about now," I quietly mused more to myself, though of course Gwen was hearing my every word, was no doubt having to experience her world crashing down around her yet again at this latest devastating blow. "Tell me, Gwen, who has access to the checkbook of Sanford Munition Co.?"

"Only two men. My father, and Alistair Burton."

"Look at this handwriting," I showed her the bottom of the check, where the signatory had written only "T", the same T that appeared as the signer of the letter, which she also read. Who was T? Was it Sanford? Burton? Someone else?

Gwen immediately shook her head. "I don't know who wrote that, but it certainly was not my father."

That left only the grim conclusion that it must have been written out by Alistair Burton himself. And if the other two men in the car on that day were corresponding so soon after Sanford's death, that could only bode poorly for both of them.

"This...this can't be," Gwen murmured. "Burton I could believe, I've never trusted that man. Always in the shadows, never seen, like a puppeteer pulling the strings. But Graham Godwin? He's always been like another grandfather to me. How could he betray us...betray me?" She looked to be on the verge of tears again, so I squeezed her hand and implored with all my heart for this to pass.

"Listen Gwen, this doesn't prove anything just yet. It's a strong clue, but we need to investigate more if we're to get to the truth. But you need to be prepared if Godwin really has...done this."

Gwen shuddered as she sat on the bed and sighed. I sat next to her, still holding her hand for comfort.

"I know you're right. I just...can't accept it. I'm not ready for that yet."

"We can take this to the bank and ask them who withdrew it. That would confirm the identity of whoever gave Godwin the cash, and it might lead us to this mysterious T. Once we find T, we find the person that is responsible for this."

Gwen just went on shaking her head in disbelief, tears rolling down her face. "My father's life, worth five thousand dollars? After they'd been so loyal to each other..."

Another important aspect of being a PI is knowing when to take a short break from investigation. Sometimes all it took was a bit of fresh air to provide you with the inspiration to keep going, to find new clues and new leads that you hadn't seen before. It was the best defense we had against the dreaded phenomenon of tunnel vision.

"Listen, I think we've done enough for today. To go on would only be to the detriment of our states of mind. We can't talk to that new maid, Vera Walters, until tomorrow anyways, or this mystery witness, Mr. Matthews. And I'd rather not confront Godwin until we have further proof of his involvement. We'll need to take a closer look at Burton's part in all this to see if it matches up with what we've found out so far. But for now I want you to forget about all that."

"Well what shall we do then?" Gwen asked, looking up at me with eyes eager to escape the nightmare she was living in.

I tried to put on a brave face. We would solve this case sooner or later, I had already determined. But I was more right than I realized when I suggested we take a break. It was not only taking a toll on Gwen, it was taking one on me as well. I needed this just as much as she did. And I knew the perfect way to relieve our stress for today. The answer had presented itself in one of the first rooms I had seen in the estate, the parlour with its vast music selection. Music was the medicine that would soothe our souls today, I decided.

"Would you care for a waltz, Miss Sanford?"

Believe me, I know it sounds foolish. And hypocritical. That for all my claims of trying to maintain a professional distance between us, I was the one who made the offer. But you have to understand that she was under a lot of stress, nearly to the point of collapse. We both were. We needed a break. That was genuine. Did I hope that something more might become of it? I guess you could say so. But up till then it had all been flirtation, skirting the edges but never diving in. I was beyond curious by this point. I wanted to find out if it was just me. If I was deluded. Or if she felt something too. So what else could I do? I invited her to dance with me, and she accepted...

"You have a lovely record collection. And I say this as a man from a musical family. I'm impressed."

Gwen smiled sadly as she leaned back on one of the comfortable couches in the room while I began to peruse the shelves which must have contained hundreds of records from popular artists.

"It's all thanks to my mother. She loved music, and my father would dote on her by buying whatever record she wanted. We've got just about everything in there. Whatever genre you can think of. Jazz, waltz, blues, ragtime, classical, country, you name it."

As I continued to brush my way through the seemingly endless rows of discs, I began to see that she was right. They had everything from classical music to modern jazz hits. It was truly an impressive collection, and it left me in awe.

"Your mother was a very cultured woman."

I notice Gwen sit up slightly, and I caught the glimmer of sadness from the corner of my eye.

"Yes, she was."

"Aha," I exclaimed as I found something I liked. It was one of my favorite waltzes from childhood. The "Valse Septembre" by Felix Godin. I was very careful and deliberate as I removed the disc sleeve from the shelf, and then the shiny black vinyl disc from the sleeve.

"May I?"

Gwen nodded and I walked over to the record player and carefully placed the disc onto it before dropping the needle. I extended my hand, as if a gentleman inviting his lady to dance in a ballroom of days long past. Again, I asked with those two little words.

"May I?"

Gwen only hesitated for a moment before she accepted my hand and allowed me to sweep her into the dance. At last we were free. For now at least, the troubles of the investigation were left far behind us as we swayed to the music, focusing only on each other, as if nothing else in the world mattered. As if all our burdens had been lifted. As if those boundaries of which we had spoken had fallen away, safely disregarded. She wasn't just my client any more, and there was no point in trying to hide that fact. I did feel for her, of course I did. And now we were as close as we had ever been, or would be again, I was sure. That's when she leaned in and whispered in my ear as we continued to slowly move in time.

"What's happening to us right now?"

I turned her around, our feet never missed a beat. "I don't know," I whispered back, whatever it was, I didn't want it to stop. Not until we figured it out.

She whispered again. "Why do I feel for you the way that I do? I know it's not right, that we'll never-"

I just couldn't take it any more right then, and I pulled her in all the way, closing all distance between us. It didn't really register at first in my mind. It just seemed like a dream. I wasn't really kissing Gwen Sanford, my client, the woman who hired me to solve her father's murder. This was the sort of thing that happened in a novel or film, not in real life, not to a man like me. Only it wasn't a dream. It was real. I was kissing her. And it was the most wonderful and thrilling sensation I had ever felt in my life. The softness of her lips pressed to mine, my hand stroking her soft cheek, then moving to the back of her neck and finally to her red curls, feeling her hands doing the same exploration of me, the desire that passed between us, first in our eyes, and finally having its release. And as we stood there for what felt like an eternity afterwards, long after the music had stopped, I knew, we both knew, that for better or worse, the line had been crossed. We were truly now, in every sense, in this together. In that moment I tell you, the case was the furthest thing from my mind.

Unfortunately, our momemt was cut short when who else but Graham Godwin came in through the front door. This seemed to be enough to finally snap Gwen and I out of our respective trances. We were still catching our breath, flush-faced, and no doubt Godwin at least had his suspicions about what had passed between us, even if he didn't show it.

"Mr. Godwin, how did it go?" Gwen asked quickly, trying to play down our sudden closeness.

Godwin was either in the dark I'd content to play along. "It was perfectly lovely, Miss Sanford. I believe I have found a suitable replacement for your father's car. Another loose end tied up, I suppose. And I do hope you and Mr. Allison have been having an...enjoyable time as well?"

The way he said that last bit made me believe that he had indeed caught on to what was happening, yet still he wouldn't give any outward appearance of acknowledgment. I was also troubled by his use of the phrase "another loose end tied up." it seemed to be an almost perfect paraphrase of the note found in his drawer. What was the old chauffeur thinking? I wished my mind-reading talents were as refined as my sleuthing.

"Ah, yes, indeed we have," Gwen replied in what seemed like her attempt at a casual remark. "Mr. Allison was just showing me one of his favorite records."

For the first time since I'd met him, Godwin seemed to crack a small smile. "Mrs. Sanford was quite the collector, wasn't she?"

"She had excellent taste, I can say that much," I agreed.

"Well then, I shall leave you two to your own devices."

"Thank you Mr. Godwin," Gwen said politely as the chauffeur went upstairs to retire to his room. I know I should have become worried that he might realize that the five thousand dollar check was gone, but I really didn't want to leave Gwen's side right now. So I stayed. My heart had won the battle. The question now, was it a pyrric victory that might cost everything? I didn't want to think about it. I had spent years alone, working late at night, knowing I had no one to go home to. Maybe it was wrong of me to put my own desires over my duty as a civil servant, but damn if I was going to let my one opportunity to have a life outside of this business slip away. So I stayed.

We sat on the couch together for hours, talking, holding each other, kissing. It was a whole new reality for both of us. For the first time I began to think about my life after being a private investigator. Maybe I would be a family man, settle down, have a normal life where I wasn't constantly dealing with the lowest of lowlifes in society. Where I could spend every day with Gwen doing the mundane things that people take for granted. The things a private investigator simply can't do. Deep down I knew that was little more than a dream. One that would soon, I knew, come into conflict with the world of crime that I had made my bed in. But for now, that didn't matter. All that mattered was that we had each other. And this moment, with our defenses lowered at lasr, would join the chorus of memories that was flooding through my mind. For the first time though, it would be a memory I looked forward to replaying again and again.


End file.
